


here at dawn, waiting for you

by Grand_Phoenix



Series: Warcraft Drabbles, Short Stories, and Other Such Things [38]
Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: All aboard the Feels train, Angst and Feels, Ficlet, Headcanon, What-If, choo choo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-13
Updated: 2019-11-13
Packaged: 2021-01-29 19:55:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21415780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grand_Phoenix/pseuds/Grand_Phoenix
Summary: "He's not here." (And he never will.) [Jaina and Anduin, on the hills of Bastion][Shadowlands era; What-If]
Relationships: Jaina Proudmoore & Anduin Wrynn
Series: Warcraft Drabbles, Short Stories, and Other Such Things [38]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/971712
Comments: 1
Kudos: 14





	here at dawn, waiting for you

**Author's Note:**

> This is the story that was mentioned in the author's notes for _Virus_: a what-if AU that posits the idea that Jaina and Anduin are assisting the kyrians in Bastion, but Anduin is more concerned with the notion that Varian's soul will be found there. Jaina, however, is the one that must break it to him that Varian was obliterated with fel magic, which is entropic to Life and has been known to consume souls. It is safe to say that his soul was destroyed in the process as well; therefore, he would not be present anywhere in the Shadowlands and, as a result, has been wiped out of existence. People that were killed in the Fall of Theramore, such as Rhonin and Kinndy, would have a better chance of making reappearances as the mana-bomb is arcane in nature/a result of Order and not entropic/a result of Disorder as Fel is despite being a product born from the clash of Light and Shadow (although I have no idea where the idea that "the mana-bomb is so strong it wipes out the person from all realities" came from; WoWpedia shows no such indication that is the case, whereas fel devouring a person's soul in one reality is, although this doesn't necessarily address the temporal knot that is Socrethar in WoD, unless we are to treat WoD!Socrethar as an entity separate from MU/TBC!Socrethar).

“He’s not here,” Jaina says, more to herself now, and casts another long, slow sweep over the land. It hasn’t changed since she last looked ten minutes ago: the same amber hills rolling in the distance as far as the eye can see; the same herd of pearl-white cloudrunners grazing beneath the trees and drinking from the stream that wends its way south of where they're standing to plunge over the cliffside into oblivion; the same slim, crystalline structures (_Window panes,_ she kept thinking, every time she laid eyes on them) floating in a clear blue sky where the occasional kyrian could be seen coming and going from the Aspirants’ Crucible.

Other than that brief stint with the Forsworn, Bastion is still the picture of heavenly serenity and contemplation.

Except Anduin’s eyes never stop looking  even as his body is at rest, gazing over the horizon where the other realms  suspend on the edge of reality far, far away. He had been asking around as soon as Bolvar helped secure the passage into the Shadowlands and gave everyone the run-down of what to expect and how the Covenants operate within their respective spheres. Souls that were pure and good  and never strayed from their duty in their lives are sent here by the Arbiter, and,  after much time and reflection has passed, are given the opportunity to ascend and become kyrians.

She turns to him. “Anduin….”

“He has to be!” he insists, and this time the desperation in his voice is barely concealed. “He was a good man, Jaina! Someone like him would never be put in Maldraxxus or Revendreth! And I’m sure Ardenweald is nice but he was never a very druidic person, you know? I mean, I would understand if Lo’Gosh was still around but he merged way back when. That was still my father, so maybe—”

“Anduin—”

“—he’s here! He...He’s got to be!” His hands clench and unclench. The light in his eyes, normally warm and soft and cheerful, are wild, wide; sweat beads on his bread, slides down the crevices of his nose. His hair, a stringy mess. “I just know it--!”

“Anduin!” Jaina cries. He starts and shoots a look at her that, on any other person, would make him seem eligible to be locked up in an asylum, or a second away from a nervous breakdown. The latter option seems so much more likely when he doesn’t immediately start ranting and raving, or bolt, or attack her.

He waits, like any lost, little boy that doesn’t have the answer he wants to hear. “I saw what happened,” she begins, gently. “ Not up close; I was on the  _Skybreaker_ when  I saw...when Gul’dan killed your father. ”

She licks her lips, takes a deep breath. “ He won’t be here. He won’t be in Ardenweald. He won’t be in any of the realms. Varian is gone. He’s not coming back.”  _And he never will._

Anduin stares at her. The corners of his eyes are bloodshot, the skin underneath dark and droopy. The lack of so little sleep can be testament to a lot of things, she surmises: if it wasn’t the Blood War and all the loss of life that came with it, then it’s having Taelia coming face to face with her father, not as a man in Lordaeronian armor but now only a walking, ruined husk of volcanic flesh and the dragonfire that forever keeps him immortal, after one too many arguments in the throne room that made even Genn and Shaw uncomfortable. And if it’s not that, then it’s the knowledge Bolvar imparted to them that all  the old, familiar faces they would meet in their travels—and perhaps in the Maw, as well.

Uther.

Kael’thas.

Antonidas.

Her father.

Arthas.

“There’s still a chance,” Anduin insists, weak and mumbling. “Others had it worse. I heard the stories, like Dar’Khan Drathir. He was obliterated, you know? There was nothing left of him...but he still came back! He still—”

“Died. And died again not long after. But Dar’Khan had the Scourge on his side to return him to life. Your father—”

“He had the Light!” he cries. “If the Light can bring back Calia, then it can bring back dad!”

“There’s nothing left of him, Anduin,” Jaina says, swallowing thickly. Throat dry, not a lump to be found, though it feels as such. “Everyone saw what happened to him aboard the ship. It was fel. And the fel….”

She doesn’t finish. She chews on the inside of one cheek, sees the way his face falls like shards of glass breaking in slow motion. The feral denial fading from his eyes,  until all color  is gone and he is but a pale imitation of life itself.  He clamps his lips together, presses them and sucks them in.  Balls his hands so hard she can hear the leather of his gloves creak.  When he breathes, his whole frame shakes.

Her breath hitches in her throat. _How long?_ She wonders. _How long have you been suffering like this, in silence?_

_Too long, _a voice that sounds like her mother responds with. _Even in peace, it never ends._

She considers reaching out to him. To draw him into her, just as her mother used to when she would find her stowed away somewhere in the Keep where the servants couldn’t find her, or tucked beneath the boardwalks in the Upton Borough or, if Jaina was feeling particularly reckless, all the way in nearby Hatherford to pick at the pebbles and moss growing on the damp stone. Of course, there would come the scolding afterwards, and the punishment that would be doled out for worrying not just her family but everyone that had been searching for her, but Mother would still take her into her arms nonetheless, once she had calmed down, and console her that everything was going to be alright even though it would not seem to be the case on the surface.

Anduin is not a child anymore. He is a king, newly crowned, a young man in armor that is much too big for him and a sword as long as he is tall. Tall like his father but slender like his mother, built more for healing and diplomatic speeches than combat and emotional outbursts. No rest, day in and day out; not even sleep could keep away the nightmares and horrors of the day.

One touch.

One touch, she thinks. That's all it would take.

Jaina stops herself. Lowers her hand and lets it drop at her side.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I...I wasn’t trying to—”

“It’s fine, Jaina,” Anduin says quietly. “I know.” His Adam’s apple bobs. Another breath, another tremble. “I know.”

“Let’s go back to Oribos. I...I could go for some lunch right now. And tea; I hear the kyrians make some great tea.”

“Lunch sounds wonderful.” Anduin starts walking, steps plodding and stilted, and Jaina matches his pace as they go in the direction they came from, down the hills of tall yellow grass that line the marble road. “I hope they’ll have lavender,” he says, monotone, more to himself rather to Jaina. “Or maybe chamomile. Do you think they’ll have chamomile?”

“I think they will,” says Jaina, and keeps her eyes focused on the Crucible’s towers in the distance.

“I hope so.”

( They do. At least, an equivalent, but they taste just as well; and Jaina kindly asks the servers to seat them at a table in one of the nooks by the hearth. Away from the windows, if they did not mind, and with ceramic mugs.

They did not.

Neither did Anduin.)


End file.
